


The Price of Living

by Pride_Before_The_Fall



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, Elvhen, Elvhen Pantheon, Elvhenan, Elvhenan Culture and Customs, F/F, F/M, Fenxshiral Elvhen Lexicon, M/M, Romance, Slavery, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age), This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-04-21 15:47:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pride_Before_The_Fall/pseuds/Pride_Before_The_Fall
Summary: "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you," —Mia AngelouIn the end, she’s alive, and he’s dead.In the end, she’s standing in a burning field of her own making, surrounded by the dead bodies of comrades and enemies alike.In the end… she’s left alone with corpses and a dying brother in a field of fire and blood, with a victory that feels like loss and a triumph that feels like sorrow and grief.
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s), Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Lace Harding/Sera, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter One

_ Crystalline blue waters stretched out as far as the eye could see. The cries and screeches of birds unseen rang high and clear through the air of this otherwise quiet and serene mid-day hour._ _There, just off the shore of Tevinter, lied a Cogue ostentatious in style; it was a merchant ship. The planks of the deck were pristine, each and every single plank wiped down every morn. The only unclean blemish on the surface was a woman; an elf to be exact._

_Her head was tilted back, her eyes closed shut, and a look of peace upon her bare face. Her features were sharp from one angle and soft from another, a living contradiction. The woman’s eyebrows are softly arched and lead down to a delicately rounded nose. Her mouth was slightly parted, soft, even breaths slipping through thin lips; lips that were chapped and cracked from lack of water and hard labor beneath the scorching sun. _

_“Oy! Knife-ear!”_

_The woman’s eyes snapped open; startled and scared. Her dark hair swooshing through the air with how abrupt her turn was at the derogatory call._  
_A human man, thin and withered in his old age, stood at the prow. His hair, under the dirt and grime, was blonde with streaks of silver sprouting from the crown of his head; he was the captain of the ship. His face pulled up in a grimace; the dirty smudge on his cheek pulling in protest at the movement._

_"You didn’t get passage to jus’ stare at the sky. You’re s‘posed to be workin’ to pay yer fare.”_

_Her hands tightened minutely around the mop’s handle, she forcibly relaxed them. “Of course, serah.” Her head dipped down in a sign of subservience she didn’t feel._

_His eyes narrowed. He nodded his head once and turned to march back to the helm._

_The woman’s lips curled briefly in distaste before smoothening out into a straight line; the practiced apathetic look of a servant...or a defiant slave._

* * *

_The soft rocking of the ship upon the waters brought nightmares and memories better left forgotten._  
_In the dark, dank, musty air of the bilge, a lump sat in the corner; shivering. There were stacks of provisions in sealed crates lying all about. A rat or two scurried across the floor, searching for substance no doubt. _

_The cold lump stayed huddled against the walls of the fancy Orlesian trading boat. Its eyes shining in the dark, reflecting the dying light of a lantern a few feet away._

_It was the swabbie from the deck; the Elvhen woman._  
_She had been in Dairsmuid of Rivain, just east of the Tevinter Imperium. It was there that the Cogue docked for careening in Rialto Bay. The ship was carrying goods to Tevinter from Antiva, of course, she didn’t know that at the time of her boarding. If she had, she would’ve most likely never bartered herself passage on the vessel._

_When she boarded the Cogue, she was under the impression it was heading for Ferelden. The woman didn’t realize they were making a stop in Tevinter until the ship was passing through the Venefication Sea and happened to spy the White Spire standing tall to the south. By then it was too late to ‘abandon ship’ as it were. _

_She stayed below deck as much as she could during the stay in Neromenians’s port. They stayed for five days before leaving with a much lighter cargo and fewer mouths to feed. The further away the vessel got from the Nocen Sea, the better she felt._

_They had just sailed through the Ventosus Straits a few moons prior; considering the softer motions of the waves, it was safe to say they were entering the Venefication Sea once more._

_Her teeth chattered in the silence of the bilge._  
_She had been offered a small bunk in the cargo hold with the other swabbies and staff, but after some young drunk bastard tried to climb into her cot she wasn’t going to stick around._

_The cold paired with the sea-salt smell threatened to send her mind back to Tevinter. _

_She should’ve stayed in Rivain._

* * *

  
“_Move_!”

The yell came from a Templar barking at refugees like the chained beast he was. Spittle flying from between rotted teeth and the yellow pallor of his skin telling the story of a drunk. His hand raised and fell in one stroke upon a frail-looking elderly elf. The spray of blood and clouds of dust mixed together in a rust-colored curtain; swirling between the feet of cowering civilians and jeering Templars without preference.

The Templar’s face twisted in a disgusted sneer as he looked between the blood-stained gauntlet adorning his hand and the elf on the ground struggling to stand.

“Rabbits, can’t even take a little tap, “he scoffed mockingly before he bent over to wipe his hand on the man's back. “Should just put you outta your misery.” He stands back up and shoves his foot down on top the elf; pushing his face in the ground before commenting towards an elven couple grasping each other. “Being the pointy-eared bastards, you are, I'm sure you'll make like rabbits and spawn one to replace him.” His gaze lingered on the woman; leering.

He made a grand show of unsheathing his blade from his side; it glinted in the sun like a terrible omen and he raised it above his head as the refugees began backing away, terror written on their faces.  
His mouth quirked up in a smirk, “Knife ears,” he scoffed, “worthless, the lot of— “

Screams rang out and cries of confusion were sounded from the throats of Templars; well, not from _all_ the Templars. 

The elderly elf stared up at the Templar staring back at him, as they locked eyes their gaze moved slowly and morbidly to stare down at the arrow protruding from the Holy Knight’s gullet.

He gurgled, a wretched sound of shredded vocal cords trying to rub together; before His body jerked violently once more. The elf on the floor scrambled back as best he could with bleeding extremities and scraped hands, his eyes wide. Another arrow had lodged itself into the Templar’s eye socket; the eye bursting like a grape underfoot.

He fell face first into the small puddle of the blood he once abhorred; his heart no longer beating.  
There was a moment of silence as the dust settled around the fallen form. The Order staring at the body of their Captain and comrade; and the refugees holding their breath, waiting for the punishment and blame still on its way.

And then, the pandemonium began.

Great cries, hysterical in delivery, are coming from the civilians and The Templar Order pull their blades from their sheaths; a symphony of ringing metal filling the Planasene Pass.

A short, stocky Templar strode to the front, his face thunderous and accusing, “What did you _do?!_” he was staring at the congregation of elves slowly being pushed to the front, away from the human refugees. His eyes locked upon the elf who had been struck earlier, he was being supported by two younger elven lads. 

The Templar's eyes narrowed into slits, disdain radiating from his core as moved purposefully toward the trio. “Knife Ears! What did you do!?”

“Alright you caught me, I was puttin’ the mad dog outta his misery.”

The feminine voice came from behind him and not in front like he was expecting. The elves were just as startled. 

All attention was riveted on the small collection of trees in front of a large grouping of rocks; the voice came from there. The tree branches parted to reveal a bare elven face, her ears standing proud adorned with a few piercings. Her calm smoky-blue eyes had a glint of humor as she stared at the group taking up a portion of the pass.

“Sorry, was he your friend?” the question could've been sincere if not for the mocking smirk gracing her lips, the light breeze playfully ruffles strands of her brown hair as her head cocks to the side; earrings glinting and tinkling in the high noon sun. The tension was palpable in the air.

Everyone was tense except, seemingly, the elven woman watching the congregation of people in the pass below with calculating amusement and a hidden gleam of righteous anger behind her eyes. 

Ashara had a hard time not glaring at the Templars; it was a fight and a half to keep the grimace off her face at the sight of elves cowering and at the humans who pushed them to the front like sacrificial cattle; closer to the bubbling raging mass of iron and lyrium addiction, she sneered. 

Her sensitive ears caught the faint sounds of a child whimpering and the frightened rapid breathing of the elven man that was struck once before. Her observing was cut short by a slender hand tapping lightly on her ankle in a pattern of threes.

_**Tap-Tap-Tap** _

_**TapTapTap** _

_**Tap-Tap-Tap** _

Showtime.

Her smile never faltering she shifts her weight onto the balls of her bare feet in preparation for the chaos yet to come.

“So, what’s a bunch of Templars doin’ escorting commoners?” She raised an eyebrow and a corner of her mouth twisted slightly, looking less teasing and more like a clever Fox watching her prey. She continued , laying on the accent thick, “—shouldn’t you be out razin’ in ‘The name of the Maker’ and chasin’ apostates or somethin’?"

There was a flurry of metal ringing as the Holy Knights physically bristled at the mocking words coming from the mouth of a Rabbit.

The Mage and Templar war has been going on for nigh on two-and-a-half years; a bloody, brutal couple of years in truth. Templars burning crops and houses in pursuit of Apostates and Abominations. Mages fleeing and never stopping or looking back at the mess left in their wake; hurting people in the name of freedom, some unknowingly, some very much aware of the outcome of their actions.

It was a vicious cycle without an end in sight.

“What would you know, _Elf?_” The self-appointed pseudo-leader stepped forward threateningly. “There is no place for a Rabbit at the Maker’s side.” The stocky man guffawed and jeered with malicious intent laid bare for all to see.

The ‘_Your kind is not wanted’_ goes unsaid, but not unheard.

Smile still in place despite the newly clenched jaw and lack of amusement apparent in her cooling eyes. Ashara shifted her arm to lean her shoulder against the trunk of the tree she was standing in.

“You’re right,” she nods her head in agreement before dramatically furrowing her brows in a show of faux-inquisitiveness, “—but what does the Maker say about nugs?”

The area was silent, disbelief palpable and confusion rampant in all that heard her inane question.  
She smirked.

The sudden clattering of claws on stone and blaring squeaking comes from the cropping of rocks behind the tree she was in. Small pink rodents stampeding their way down the mountain in a wave of wrinkly flesh.

The copious amount of nugs scaling their way down the mountain at rapid pace could almost be numbered in the hundreds. The sight while unrealistically comical, was just about to be a scene straight out of an Orlesian haunted play.

Ashara cocked her head to the side, “I’d run if I were you.” She quipped, “they’re quite hungry you know.”  
  


* * *

_Her eyes snapped open and with a gasp, she awoke to darkness._

_Her heart was pounding and with the blackness surrounding her, it pumped even harder. It was a terrifying moment, waking to a familiar scene, but unable to remember how you got back there— there in the horrifying dank darkness of a ship’s bilge. The cold sea water still salty on her tongue from where the ocean leaked through the walls and splashed her awake; it tasted of blood in her mouth._

_Heavy footsteps sounded from the stairs leading to her hiding place and her body tensed. The small tightly wound ball of mana slowly unfurled from it's hiding place; tucked behind her sternum as opposed to where others had it at the base of their ribcage. Light shined down the stairwell and with it brought a new type of fear; the steps were getting louder._

_It's when the intruders face is illuminated in the dim light of his lantern that she remembers herself. She remembers that there is no large body pressing against her side or a smaller one nestled on her bosom. A gaping hole opens up where her heart once rested; grief clawed up her insides._

_“Psst, Ashara" The man’s pointed ears were telling enough of his identity that it further grounded her in reality. His thin face was pinched with pain and worry; his right hand was pressed tightly against his left side._

_“Ashara."_

_“Over here."_

_She whispered just as quietly as the elven man did, her voice held a hidden strained quality to it. _

_The man moved the lantern towards the back corner of the ship, his feet following her call. It's not until he spots her eyes reflecting in the lighting, just as his own are doing, that he knows where to go._

_With quiet and nimble footsteps, ones that greatly contradicted those coming down the stairs, he manages to squeeze his way between the crates. Of course, not without a pained breath being hissed from behind his teeth._

_His back pushes against the same wooden boards behind hers, their knees brush._

_“I couldn't find you in the cargo hold, did you get lost?” his face is still contorted with pain, but now confusion joins his features as Ashara shakes her head. He opens his mouth—_

_“I find it unsettling to go to bed bunked with drunk men so close to me," she mummers quietly to him, her hands rubbing her arms to help warm her body. His mouth closes slowly and his brows furrow, there’s a flash of understanding that streaks through his stormy grey eyes. He knows what she's implying, human men had taken advantage of more than a few elven women when drunk; almost as many as when they’re sober, at least drunk men might pass out before they can get their pants down._

_“Did anyone try to touch you?” he asks the question quietly and thoughtfully, as though he had great musings running through his mind. Ashara's eyes narrow._

_“Faron— “_

_He snorts at the reprimand hidden in her tone before wincing at the sharp pain radiating from his side._

_“Don’t worry, I'm not completely without wits,” He mutters, traces of a grimace still lingering at the corners of his wry smile, “I won't do anything that they can catch me for.”_

_He grunts at the abrupt shove from Ashara, but they're both smiling. They ignore each others pain, his a physical one and her’s a mental one. They both needed levity and silent comfort, over words of worry and empty promises of hope; because there was none for elven bastards and former slaves alike_.

* * *

A loud gleeful cackle breaks through the air like a whip, obnoxious snorts, and giggles interspersed between breaths. “Did you see their faces?!” Another full-bodied cackle makes its way from the mouth of a tall lithe elven girl stumbling around the ambush site.

“Stickin’ it to the Holy twits,” she continues as she kicks the corpse of one of the knights in question; morbid amusement still dancing merrily in her murky blue eyes. “Hey, you gotta love kickin’ ‘em down huh, Elfy-bits?” a childish smile playing across the corners of her lips.

“Sera…” 

Ashara sighs as she tends to the elves that were injured in the impulsive raid. Several of them flinching at the vicious way her blonde companion was desecrating the dead knight. “Death is never something take joy in.” Ashara ignores Sera and her mocking gestures at her words. Her hand moves slowly, hovering over a particularly gruesome nug bite on a small boy’s arm. The child watches in awe as the flesh starts to knit together. 

Ashara can’t prevent the sad smile that flits across her face briefly. Her fingertips raise to lightly brush away the silver fringe hanging in the elven lad’s eyes. He couldn’t have been more than five winters-old. 

His small hands reverently trace over where the teeth marks had once marred his forearm. The small child looks up at Ashara and she can’t help but see another wide-eyed little boy transposed over this little boy’s visage. 

“Eirlen!? Eirlen!”

The small boy drags his eyes away from Ashara’s own and blinks away the dazed look he once held. 

“Mamae!”

_Eirlen…_

Snow child.

Ashara’s lips quirk, amused. It was a fitting name for a child with hair of silver and eyes of sterling grey. A young woman makes herself known as she squeezes herself between a group of humans; a relieved smile lights her vallas’lin inked features. She’s so overjoyed and relieved that she doesn’t notice the affronted humans she bumped into making a start in her direction.

Ashara’s eyes harden into chips of ice; the young mother remains oblivious to it all, but her son— Eirlen— does not. He watches with childlike wonder as the-woman-with-the-magic-hands glares at the humans; he watches as they back off when faced with her ire.

“Eirlen, da’len are you hurt?”

“ ‘m fine Mama. The magic lady used-ed magic and fixed me!”

“…used.” His mamae corrected absentmindedly, watching Ashara warily. “You’re the one that led the raid.” Ashara winced internally at the hint of accusation hidden in her tone.

_Well, shit._

* * *

_Lights flickered, dim and dark, wavering shadows cast upon rough stone walls and the sound of metal scraping upon the ground, rattling and shaking. _

_Labored breathing came behind her, stifled sobs came from in front. Her small hands latched onto her Babae’s worn linen shirt, twisting and turning the fabric between shaking fingers. Harsh guttural sounds from the human mages grated on her ears, the trade languages were all hard edges and sharp intentions; nothing like the soft lightness of her mothertongue. _

_Where was her Mamae and isa'ma'lin?_


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was one problem, though…
> 
> “You’re right, we should warn Jenny as well. I heard she was looking for her sister in Orlais, she went missin’ a few weeks ago.” She mentions quietly.
> 
> Sera’s head snapped up, “Her sister is missing? Or is she missin’?”
> 
> They locked eyes, “She’s missin’. Disappeared in Antiva, Jenny was asking around if anyone knew where she went.”
> 
> “Shit.”
> 
> "Yeah..."

_“Get out, Knife-ear, we’ve docked, and our accord is fulfilled.”_

_Ashara’s eyes snapped open; her back ramrod straight against the ship wall._

_The captain took a warning step forward, and Ashara got the message ‘now’ She darted forward and around him, dodging his half-hearted jab at her head. Dashing down the ramp, she locks eyes with Faron and watches, confused, as his lips upturn into a secretive smirk._

_Her head snaps around to stare back at the ship, slowing down her jog and just in time too, for girly screams ring out from below the deck of the vessel. _

_Human sailors flood out of the ships. Her eyes are locked upon the cogue and the smoke that billowed out, nose wrinkling in distaste at the rancid smell. The smell was so potent that she almost didn’t notice Faron slinking up next to her. Almost._   
_Her eyes narrow in thought._

_“What did you do?” She whispers harshly to his smirking face._

_Faron turned slightly towards her, an unconvincing affronted look upon his face. “Me? Why ever would I have need to smoke out humans from their dirty, dark, cave?”_

_They stare at each other, waiting for the other to give; neither do. Faron raises his brows pointedly, and Ashara’s eyes sharpen into daggers. _

_“Don’t you have somewhere to be, My lady?” He says mockingly._

_She sets her jaw and points at him, “This isn’t over.”_

_“Okay,” humor lingers around the corners of his mouth._

_Asshole, she thinks, two parts annoyed and one part fond._

_His countenance seems to soften for a moment as he stares at her face, a hint of desperation hidden in his gaze, “Be careful, Ashara, things are different in Ferelden.” He stresses, his eyes turn imploring, “You can’t treat this place like Rivain, they won’t look the other way here.”_

_She smiles, tiredly, “I know, and I’ll be fine.”_

_“Just—just avoid the humans, alright? They’re no friend to the elves here, not after the Blight.” His hand rakes through his cinnamon-colored hair, shiny with grease from lack of bathing. “…especially the Templars,” he cautions._

_Ashara shifts forward and pulls him into a hug; she can feel him stiffen briefly before slowly moving forward to lean against her, not reciprocating, but not denying her reassurance either._

_“I’ll be fine,” she repeats, “You’ll see.” She lets go of him to look into his eyes, “It’s you I should be worried about, you’re going back to Rivain, and I’m not blind enough to not notice the tension between the Dalish and the Chantry, especially in Dairsmuid.”_

_He smiles, “We’ll endure, we always do, so don’t worry too much.” _

_Ashara nods her head reluctantly. “Sule sal harthir,” she speaks slowly, but not incorrectly; it’s been a while since she’s spoken the language of the people._

_“…Sule,” and then, they drift from each other. _

_Neither looks back as they walk further away, they will meet again, or they won’t; they know this. So, they part, Ashara to Denerim and Faron back to Dairsmuid to once again join his bondmate and her clan._

_Why he left with her, Ashara would never know, not until it was too late_.

* * *

  
It’s with the sound of wood crackling in a fire that makes her nostalgic.

The wood crackling, the smell of meat being cooked, and the warm, orange glow bathing the camp in firelight. The only thing missing was the soft breathy tones of her mother singing and her father’s unique scent of halla fur and broiled leather; and the brave tales he told while the sharp, calming sound of a whetstone sliding against steel filled the silences.  
It was too quiet and yet, not quiet enough.

Loud, obnoxious laughing, free and untamed, break the contemplative silence, “Those Tempy shits didn’t even fight back. Pswah, did ya see ‘em scream?!” More giggles burst forth from drunk-happy lips. Sera was sprawled on her stomach lying on the ground. She was talking to one of the newly recruited ex-Carta mercenaries. 

Ashara pursed her lips as much as she felt responsible for Sera and her messes and was just as fond. She couldn’t help the thrum of annoyance that went through her, and if she was honest, jealousy.  
She envied Sera’s ability to let go. To not feel bound by over three millennia of cultural baggage, like she was. For all that Sera was immature and full of revulsion for their shared culture, she was irrevocably _free_.

Free in all the ways Ashara wasn’t. Burdened Sera was not, but Ashara? Ashara could never let go; not as much as she should in this age.

To her, Sera was everything she abhorred and desired. Everything she never wanted to be and yet everything she dreamed of. 

“Oy! Elfy-bits, you got a load of this? Some holy lady is callin’ a meetin’ in Ferelden, yeah.” Sera’s eyes gain a mischievous twinkle, “Maybe we should send a message to the little people, yeah? We might get to see this meetin’.” 

The refugees that stayed and made camp with them looked confused, but Ashara knew what Sera was trying to hint at; send intel to Red Jenny and ask to spy on the gathering.

For as obtuse and incoherent Sera could be at times, she made a damn good rouge and could be subtle when the situation called for it. 

There was one problem, though…

“You’re right, we should warn Jenny as well. I heard she was looking for her sister in Orlais, she went missin’ a few weeks ago.” She mentions quietly.

Sera’s head snapped up, “Her sister is missing? Or is she _missin’?_”

They locked eyes, “She’s _missin_’. Disappeared in Antiva, Jenny was asking around if anyone knew where she went.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

That particular code meant the Jennies had a rat. By mentioning that Jenny was in Orlais, it meant they were being called back. Antiva would have been where the rat was last known to be, and Jenny asking if there was anyone who knew where her ‘sister’ went would be the code to let everyone know that there were accomplices still in the Jennies.

In other words, they needed to find the fastest way back to Orlais, the longer it took them, the more suspicion they would be met with.

“Ship or land, ya think?”

Ashara shook her head, “It’s summer, the storms on the Waking will be numerous. It might be faster, but horseback will be safer.” She moves her hand to rub at her neck, knots of stress already forming. Faster was important, but if they got caught in a storm, the Jennies might assume they had a part in this betrayal business. Assuming, of course, they didn’t drown. 

Sera made a disgusted noise, “We be smellin’ like horse shite fo’ months, yuck.” She stuck her tongue out and shuddered comically. 

_Horseback it is._

The campfire flickered for a moment, and Ashara went back to staring at it.

It was going to be a stressful month.

* * *

_Denerim was everything she expected and nothing she had hoped for, sadly._

_Upon entering the Alienage, she was besieged by curious looks and narrow-eyed glances._

_Trust doesn’t seem to come easy here._

_Trudging forward to a small hovel lying behind a tall, shabby tavern. Her new home was small, and the roof was slowly bending in on itself. There were dead flowers and herbs lying in the flowerbox outside a window. The door was a startling green, small chips of paint peeling off to leave a bland, natural wood underneath._

_Walking into her house, she couldn’t help but gaze around at all the dust lying about and upturned furniture. She sighed and let her pack slip from her tired shoulders, falling to the floor with a muffled thump, a small cloud of dirt rising into the air._

_What now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen Used (Credit to Fenxshiral for the Lexicon):
> 
> Sule tael tasalal / Sal sura / Sule sal harthir:
> 
> What it means: "Until we meet again. / Come again. / Until we hear of each other again." Used amongst acquaintances and friends. 
> 
> The Proper Responses Are:  
-Sule melan'an. (Until then.)  
-Ea son. (Be well.)  
-Sule (Shortened form of sule melan'an. used only with friends)
> 
> Elvhen, as a language, is very much focused on social standing in its words and phrases. This is coming from the information revealed in both Masked Empire and Inquisition that Elvhenan actually had a very rigid class structure, where social status was a very important part of society. 
> 
> [Quoted from Fenxshiral's, 'Project Elvhen: Expanding the Elvhen Language.']


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara’s gait slows as they near a balcony. Her tan fingers closing more firmly around the stiletto lying in her palm. Her legs tense as Sera’s hand closes into a fist, no fingers are left out, and there’s no more time to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halamshiral was built by the elves at the end of The Long Walk sometime between -165 and -140 Ancient, its name meaning "the end of the journey" in the elven language. (Wiki)

_Finding a place to belong in Denerim was harder than she thought._  
  
_“Potatoes! Potatoes! The finest you er’r see this side o’ the market!”_  
  
_It went like this: every morning, she’d wake up, wash her hair and wipe her body down with the water leftover, clean up, have her morning meal, and then go look for work._  
  
_She’s been doing this routine since she moved into the alienage._  
  
_She’s been in the alienage for five months._  
  
_She still hasn't found work._  
  
_At this point, she’s getting desperate enough to consider stealing. Staring at the many vendors and market stalls around her, loudly proclaiming their wares for all to hear, and the scent of cooking meat wafting on a tempting breeze; the idea becomes more and more tantalizing. Ashara swallows back the sudden flood of saliva pooling in her mouth harshly and resolutely stares at the ground as she stalks away from the market._  
  
_Something’s gotta give._  
  


* * *

Has she mentioned how she both loved and _loathed_ Orlais in equal measure?  
  
The streets filled with the fragrance of overwhelming sweet blossoms with a hint deceit and corruption sprinkled on top. It was as though the closer one got to the palace, the more rancid the scent became, and the sweeter the perfume bloomed in artifice. But, for all its falsities, Ashara could never condemn it utterly.  
  
She felt close to her kin, walking down the streets of Halamshiral. It reminded her of the pain her people go through every day, making her somber all the while. But most of all, it pulled on strings she long-buried in her heart, ropes that bound her so tightly to the last of her blood-kin: her brother.  
  
Her baby-brother, who believed in so intensely the fight for freedom that he never noticed giving up his own.  
  
_Ellas…_  
  
“Hey! Quit the day-dreamin’, yeah? We’ve got workin’ to do.” Sera musters past her, eyes darting up and around. Ashara’s ears twitch as she catches Sera’s mumbling, “Fuckin’ twats, can’t keep their pissin’ loyalties tight…”  
  
Ashara smirks, raising her head; hands still tucked in her dark coat.  
  
She was like a dark shadow floating through a sea of fashion colors. The one black spot walking through the bright and fashionable Orlais. Catching attention when walking across the center of the bustling market, while Sera slips through and around distracted people, unseen. However, while Sera flits unnoticed as just another elf of Orlais, Ashara shall remain the distraction. The sore-eye in vibrant Val Royeaux, with her black bear-hide trousers clinging closer to her lithe form and her light dragon-scale armor. The deep-red bodice is akin to spilled blood in the dark and the sleeves of her undershirt, sheer dark charcoal covering her arms down to the wrist.  
  
Shrouding her ensemble, a black coat, thin and breathable, but durable for harsh weather. It cinched ever so slightly at the waist. Buckles and metal studs tarnished down so not to give any shine, her vambraces delicately embroidered with silver thread, adorned beautifully, but simple enough to seem unassuming in most natural light.  
  
Her fingers shifted subtly enough for any on-lookers to be assured that she was just tightening the laces of her vambraces. She feels sharp points prick her fingertips, a reassuring sensation before all else. With her next step forward, she feels the stilettos strapped to her thighs and at the base of her spine. The thin, unseen daggers resting in her boots warmed against her calves. A few more steps forward had her coat sliding more firmly closed around her body, small knives littering her person, hidden in innocent folds of fabric.  
  
She was ready.

* * *

_They must’ve been down here –here in between the roots of a large tree; tucked in so far they’re beneath the trunk– for two days. _  
  
_She can feel his harsh breaths stutter as he stills: her hands clasped over his mouth. She swallows quietly as a trickle of water drips over the back of her hand; Ellas’s fingers grasp desperately at her knees, both of them bracketing his small form against her. _  
  
_Her mouth is salty with the tang of copper and tears, Her hair tickles the back of her neck as a dribble of warm, sticky, liquid makes its way down her face. It’s dark and humid; their clothes–if you can even call the threadbare scraps of fabric they have, clothes– stick to their skin like sap to a tree, soaked with sweat._  
  
_Just as they begin to relax, leaves rustle as footsteps, soft as a whisper, make themselves known. Ellas starts shaking–his hand clamping tighter around her leg. She pulls him closer to her chest, her legs tucking them even tighter into their hiding spot; they both try to curl in on each other. Their eyes clamp shut, hoping that without their eyes reflecting in the dark, they’d be safe. She can’t help the flinch that racks her body as the warmth of firelight wafts against her face, the light turning her vision red behind her eyelids. _  
  
_Ellas pushes further into her chest, so close that she barely has enough room to take a breath, her lungs straining against her ribcage, threatening to crack her sternum in two. She feels relief flood her as the light begins to recede from their alcove. Her body slowly releases from it’s locked position, and Ellas sags back against her as a new wave of tears falls from his face and onto her hands._  
  
_She feels as hope begins to take root as the Tevene rumblings fade in the distance. They might actually make it out of–_  
  
_Her eyes snap open as Ellas is ripped away from her; his screams echoing in the forest around them as their hands are torn from one another, their ragged fingernails scoring harsh, bloody lines down each other's arms from the force of their grip on one another._  
  
_No!_  
  
_She jerks and kicks and screams and cries; she sobs until she can’t breathe as arms close around her like shackles. She can still hear Ellas screaming her name as they’re hauled away from each other. Her nails dig into skin as her legs kick and latch onto anything in reach to keep her from being moved. She can feel static in the air, and thunder booms in the distance as she continues to fight against the man holding her. The first fork of lightning strikes barely a league away._  
  
_Her body begins to shake as she forces mana through her veins, heedless of the damage it’s causing to her body, lightning crackles to life, bubbling from beneath her skin as she floods the area with sympathetic magic._  
  
_She can’t help but revel in the screams that come in response, even as her stomach turns as the acrid scent of burnt flesh and fried hair rises high in the night sky._  
  


* * *

Ashara keeps pace as she walks along the hidden slums of Val Royeaux.   
  
Not pausing even as her eyes catch a shadow flickering on the ground from above, her gait is smooth and unbothered, even as a thin knife slide home in her awaiting palm. Her ears twitch involuntarily at the quiet thud of footsteps ghosting across the rooftops surrounding them. Ashara lifts her gaze away from her boots, and her eyes trace the form of Sera a few feet before her.  
  
She watches as Sera’s shoulders clench minutely and then release just as fast, her pale hands swinging in time with her steps.   
  
_There_.  
  
Ashara’s eyes dart to Sera’s hand and watch as the blonde’s fingertips brush, tellingly against her plaid covered thigh.  
  
Once.  
  
Twice.  
  
Thrice.  
  
Before they move away on the next step forward, Sera’s fingers no longer skim the surface of her thigh, but three loosely splayed fingers appear in place of Sera’s open palm. Ashara catches another shadow leaping across the rooftops from her periphery.  
  
One of Sera’s fingers tuck back into her closed fist; only two are still open as it continues to sway at her side.  
  
Ashara’s gait slows as they near a balcony. Her tan fingers closing more firmly around the stiletto lying in her palm. Her legs tense as Sera’s hand closes into a fist, no fingers are left out, and there’s no more time to wait.   
  
They make a break for the balcony, leaping up to grip the vines hanging from the railing; they move quickly before they snap beneath their combined weight. They dart toward the twin doors once they cleared the balcony. Ashara’s hand flips a dagger round, and she slams it against the railing just in time to catch a hand straight through the palm. Ripping her knife out of the now groaning man, she has just enough time to throw it at another form when it lands on the balcony from above, her stiletto ripping a path through their eyeball and out the back of their head with a _squish_.  
  
The thud of a body hitting the ground coincides with the sound of two heavy doors slamming shut. A symphony of thuds finds home in the wood behind them as Ashara and Sera collapse against the doors they just heaved close. However, they weren’t quite fast enough to stop one knife from slipping through.   
  
The sound of metal lodging itself into fabric cuts through the air. There, a knife shakes in its place, wobbling above the should of one, very important, redhead. The once plush, maroon-colored velvet chair, now marred by a glint of silver. The red form on the chair is stone still in the middle of the room. Ashara swallows as she watches the blank expression on the redhead's face.   
  
_This is bad._  
  
“So, you decided to finally show up, I was beginning to wonder if you had died.”  
  
_Starting to wish we did_.  
  
Ashara keeps her mouth shut, and when Sera moves to open hers, Ashara is quick to send a quelling look her way. Her eyes dart back to the man in the chair; just in time to catch crimson lips quirk into a smile.  
  
“We–“  
  
Ashara’s eyes go wide when Sera speaks, but by the time she thinks to do something, it’s already too late. The sharp point of a sword glistens at the hollow of Sera’s throat the moment her first word is spoken. The next sound is Sera’s jaw as it clicks shut.  
  
_Now she listens. Typical._  
  
Ashara abruptly jerks back, her head smacking the door behind her, and she can’t help the groan that slips out as the tip of a dagger makes itself known beneath her chin.  
  
The quiet click of heels on marble echo in the silence. 

Ashara watches as the man stalks slowly towards them. He stops just before he reaches them, his form nearing a large table filled with sumptuous food, but he only reaches for an apple, one as red as his hair. Turning it around thoughtfully in his hand, he speaks once more.  
  
“…not only are you late, you have the _audacity_ to bring the Crows right to my doorstep with you.” He pauses and stares out the windows behind their crumpled forms, “Makes one wonder if you’re the ones that aided my sister’s flight from Antiva.”  
  
The silence is deafening as the people lining the walls go impossibly still.  
  
_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen Used: (Credit to Fenxshiral's 'Project Elvhen')
> 
> Ellas --> our hope. From the words: el (ours) + las (hope)  
Alternate spelling: Ella 
> 
> Ashara --> she who is on a great journey. From the words: asha (woman) + ara (self journey)


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m Ashara,” she stutters out, uncharacteristically nervous about being around a child that just watched her kill two men. _  
  
_The girl looks at her critically, eyes narrowed with suspicion, “ ‘m Sera,” she says abruptly, sticking her arm out for a handshake._
> 
> _How human of her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know, Inquisition takes place 10–12 years after Origins. Sera was placed to be in her early twenties, 22 being her max, estimated, age. Meaning if I place her at 20 in the beginning of Inquisition, she would've been 10 or so when she meets Ashara after the Blight. 
> 
> Lady Taraline Emmald—Sera's patron—would already be long dead by the time the Blight came around, canonically speaking, but I'd rather she had just recently died during the blight and Sera ran away upon inheritance. Which is still, technically, canon, the Lady just lived a lil longer in this story. Sera has just recently been recruited into The Red Jenny's when she attempts to tail Ashara through the city.

_Ashara pauses, her ears twitching in the dark, before moving on._

_Torches flicker in the night, embers crackling and sending orange, glowing, flecks out on the air. Her footsteps are silent as she makes her way through the alley. Ashara is careful to watch her step; broken glass litters the cobblestone ground and she has naught but wrappings for her feet._

_Her ears twitch once more as she catches the sound of quiet breathing behind her, her brow furrows. The noise is too low to the ground to be anything but a child or a dwarf._

_–but the footsteps are too quiet to be just a random passer-by; no, this is a person who wants not to be caught, a person with an agenda. _

_Her own little shadow, how lovely._

_Ashara hesitates but keeps walking; keeps walking and hopes it doesn’t come back to bite her in the ass._

* * *

“This is _your_ fault.”

_Her_ fault being that they were locked in an old wine-cellar until The Red Jennies tracked down ‘Jenny’s Sister,’ and of course, they had to throw her and Sera in the dirtiest, most rat-infested one they could find; the Jennies suffered no betrayal lightly, not even imagined ones. 

Ashara’s mouth pops open, speechless–and mildly offended.

Chains rattle as Sera shifts once more in an attempt to find a more comfortable position without losing what little pride she could hold on to. Which, of course, Ashara believes to be a pointless endeavor; there is _nothing_ comfortable, nor _dignified_, about being chained to a wall, like an _animal_. 

“The fuck it is,” Ashara retorts from her place on the dirty ground. “_I_ seem to recall telling you to shut the fuck up.” Unlike Sera, Ashara knew better than to try and hold onto pride during captivity, which is why the minute the guards left, she let herself drop to the ground –arms contorted and dangling above her– heedless of Sera’s disgusted look.

Sera scoffs, her arms still above her head, shackled, “That’s some shite. You ain’t say nothin’.”

Ashara’s gaze drops from where she had been counting the roaches on the ceiling –twenty-seven and still counting– and onto Sera; her expression bland.

They lock eyes.

They remain so, staring at each other, waiting for one to give in and admit defeat.

Sera cracks first and Ashara counts the guilty slant of her shoulders and grimace crawling up her face as a sign of concession– even if she only sees a portion of it when Sera turns away to stare at barrels of wine.

_Wine…_

Wind and sky, what wouldn’t she do for some wine right now. Ashara licks her lips, throat feeling parched in the humid air of the cellar. Her head thumps against the ground as she closes her eyes, closes her eyes and pretends she can still remember the last time she had wine, and not that Orelesian grape juice, but real, _authentic_ wine.

Her body relaxes against the floorboards and she imagines what _‘Silent Plains’_ would taste like on her tongue; if she still loved it as much as she did back then; if the dark red color of the grape pomace would still be as mesmerizing as it once was. She remembers– in bits and pieces, behind the haze of hunger and fear, of pain and loathing– dirty, pointed faces and opulent ballrooms, black velveteen curtains lined with gold and near-skeletal forms, wine pitchers in every hand. 

Her breath stutters and catches in her lungs, but she pushes through the darker memories, pushes through until she can almost feel the warmth and happiness from her happier days. Her breathing slows and she lets her imagination _fly_. 

Her mind wanders, half-awake and half-dreaming.  
Ashara breathes in and then she breathes out. The sound of Sera shifting and moving, chains rattling and shaking, becoming muted. Her body floats, half-here and half-there, stuck in-between.

She breathes in and then

–she breathes _out_.

Silence and dreaming embracing her like an old friend.

_“You’re Back!”_

* * *

_The tavern door slams open behind her and rancorous laughter soon spill out into the night; along with it, a herd of drunk humans._

_Ashara huddles closer in on herself. Trying to become one with the wall next to her, shadows shrouding her form like a blanket. Her own little shadow seems to hesitate with the sudden flood of people. _

_A woman then, for no man– dwarf or human– would hesistate that long when confronted with other men, especially ones as uncoordinated and drunk as these._

_Ashara moves on, stepping carefully around any bottles littering the ground. Mindful of every sound she makes. Her head tips to the side ever so slightly, listening. _

_Her shadow soon follows._

_Probably a pickpocket, she thinks, amused despite herself. She had nothing but an apple core within the depths of her thin coat._

_Not much of a target._

_Ashara is about to exit the alley, close to the alienage she is, close to home and warm food she hopes to be._

_“Hey, lemme go, you pisser!”_

_Ashara freezes at the voic, it’s a little girl, Ferelden accent so thick she’s surprised she can understand it._  
_She should just keep going and stay out of trouble; things like this happen everyday and she’s exhausted._  
_—and, honestly? She’s entirely done with Fereldan's bullshit. The nobels who make her stomach turn with ‘the lord’s right,’ the city elves with their ‘traditions' and feebleness; and– most of all– the fucking Chantry was everywhere she looked._

_But, nonetheless, she still turns around; she turns around and tries not to start cursing–magically and or otherwise._

_There, a scrappy blonde girl stands defiant in the face of huge men; alone._

_Ashara takes a step forward, before hesistating, this could be a Nobel's daughter for all she knows. Helping her might end with Ashara getting the blame, afterall it’s her word against humans, and her word means less than dirt in the eyes of the Chantry and Law alike. _  
_But, when the blonde’s head tilts, long hair sliding over a shoulder, she sees them._

_Little points at the tips of her ears._

_Shit._

_The humans seem to come to the same conclusion–as drunk as they are– for they sneer in the girl’s face and malice lines the wrinkles in their features._

_‘She remind you of someone, sister dear?'_

_Ashara jumps, but forces her body to relax. A small puff of warm air brushes her ear and she swallows, but refuses to turn to look at where the voice is coming from; she already knows what'll happen if she looks._

_The biggest of the four men step forward to grab the blonde’s hair and a knife glints in the torchlight. He yanks her head back harshly as he invades her space, sliding his knife along the back of her scalp, strands of sunshine-yellow falling to the floor. _

_‘Small and defiant till the end,’ his voice continues to whisper in her ear, sounding sorrowful, ‘That look on her face? Brings back memories doesn’t it?’_

_A sound that can only be called a sigh, comes from the boy– for it is, most assuredly, a boy, just on the cusp of adulthood, whispering in her ear– at her back. ‘All she needs now is a big sister to come rescue her…'_

_Ashara can’t pretend any longer, her head snaps around to look at the source of the voice –a part of her hoping that if she just turns around fast enough, she’ll be able to see his face, at least once, but–_

_There’s nothing there. Nothing but empty space and a draft of cold wind._

_She knew that –she did!– before she even decided to look, but her heart still clenches in agony and a small part of her still screams, ‘don’t leave me alone!’_  
_The sound of skin striking supple flesh breaks her from her longing and before she has time to think, she’s already sliding back into the shadows._

_The elven girl is on the ground, but her face is as stubborn as before, even with blood freely flowing from her temple and her eye doing it’s best to turn into a plum; swollen and purple._

_A thin knife slips down from Ashara’s sleeve and into her trembling palm. It only stays in her hand long enough for her to get close, arm wrapping around a neck; for the blade is still cold when it slides between two ribs along a man’s left flank._

_Moving quickly— ignoring the blood pouring over her fingers— before anyone has the ime to yell, she pulls the knife out of his side and spins, with him still held against her chest, throwing it through the gullet of the other man coming up behind her, a disgusting squish as it slides through. Followed by a quiet thunk as it sinks to the hilt into a wooden wall behind him._

_The final two humans back scramble back, shaking, their eyes still on the large man lying limp in Ashara’s grasp. His breathing but a quiet rattle as one of his lungs is quickly filling with blood._

_It’s a slow way to die, she knows, so she puts her hands around his neck and with a small, sickening pop, of cartilage and bone tearing apart, he falls to the ground; dead._

_When her head looks back up to find the other two, they’ve already made their way out the alley; the smell of piss and vomit left in their wake._

_“Who're you?”_

* * *

When Ashara opens her eyes, she is no longer in a wine-cellar.

Instead, a large meadow surrounds her in its place. Instead of Sera and her surly looks as a companion, there is a small kitten, no larger than that of her palm, cuddling up to her feet.

It’s fur is a whispy sky blue.

_I've'an…_

She wets her lips and gazes down at the small form, slowly she crouches down to run her hand down it’s back. It’s body begins to vibrate against her skin, purring.

“Who are you, _arani_?” She whispers to them and the kitten seems to preen at being called friend.

The answer comes, not in words, but with emotions, thoughts and feelings, the answer comes in concepts and puzzle pieces that need to be put together. The kitten pushes further into Ashara’s hand with their face, she moves her hand to cup their furred cheek in her palm.

She chokes on a gasp as the sensation of being pulled apart and then pieced back together enters her mind. Flashes of drifting over mountains and valleys, rocks and rivers, in caverns and caves come to mind.

Then, finally, a vision of a kitten poking it’s head inside a dark cave, only to find a sleeping bear hiding inside. The kitten, too curious for it’s own good, crept forth to sniff the large animal.

Ashara sees not what happens next, only a snippet of the kitten running out of the cave at full-speed, the sound of a bear roaring following them out, and the _overwhelming_ sensation of satisfaction permeating the scene as it fades out.

When her eyes open —when had she closed them?—it’s to see the kitten —the _spirit_— staring at her curiously. 

Ashara can’t help the smirk that graces the corner of her mouth, “Curiosity killed the cat you know,” she mutters to the small form now cradled in her hands.

The kitten leans forward, its ghostly nose pushing against her own, “Yes, but satisfaction brought it _back_.” a small voice whispers in her mind, pleasure coating every word.

Ashara pulls back to stare down the kitten; the kitten who begins to look more and more like mischievous fox, than the innocent kitten it once was.

* * *

_“I’m Ashara,” she stutters out, uncharacteristically nervous about being around a child that just watched her kill two men. _

_The girl looks at her critically, eyes narrowed with suspicion, “ ‘m Sera,” she says abruptly, sticking her arm out for a handshake._

_How human of her._

_Ashara steps away from the dead body at her feet and grasps the girl’s —Sera's— hand, pulling her up off the ground at the same time as completing the human greeting ritual._

_They slowly let go of each other — Ashara politely ignoring the surprised look on Sera's face— standing awkwardly, before Sera speaks, her voice the most hesitant and timid Ashara’s heard all evening, “Got any food?”_

_Ashara looks her over; Sera is wearing what was once a silk gown, now ragged and torn at the hips, forming a psuedo tunic. A pair of plain, over-large trousers cover her legs; her feet clad in high-quality bear-hide boots, but the sole is thinner than if they were new and they fit too well to be anything but straight from the cobbler; she’s had them a long time perhaps, but no elf she knows has enough money to afford shoes like that._

_Ashara tilts her head and watches as Sera squirms under her gaze._

_Either she’s the playmate for some nobleman's daughter or her father is the nobleman— she immediately dismisses the last option, elf-blooded rarely take after their elven parents, the blood of The People is often too thin to be apparent in their features. The first is also a false lead, while the practice is common in Rivain, Ferelden is not so kind to the elven race._

_Maybe she stole the clothes, but that wouldn’t explain how they seem tailored to her form; or how her posture just screams etiquette trainning._

_Sera shivers, breaking her from her thoughts, and Ashara figures she can figure out the mystery later; later when they both have warm food in their bellies and a fireplace to thaw their chilled bones. “Yeah, I got food,” and with that, Ashara walks past Sera, towards the alienage._

_Without breaking her stride, “You coming or do you need a handwritten invitation? I don’t know about you, but I don’t have much access to ink and paper.” Ashara tries not to let her apprehension show when the only sound behind her is distant breathing as she walks further away. She is just about to turn back around when the sound of small footsteps, hurring to catch up, echo in the alley._

_When Sera catches up, her breath is uneven, but there is a small smile on her face. Ashara tucks her face into the collar of her coat, hiding her own smile in the fold of fabric._

* * *

“Wake up,” a vouce whispers harshly.

Ashara’s eyes snap open, any evidence of sleep long gone from her for face. She blinks a few times, however, as Sera's face floats into view; her shackles discarded on the floor.

Ashara’s gaze follows the length of Sera’s arm down to where her hands are working on removing Ashara’s own clasps. It takes a minute for Ashara’s brain to start working, but when it does she feels jolt of alarm flood her system, “What are you doing?” she hisses.

Sera’s returning look is bland and dry, before she turns and ignores her altogether.

Ashara rolls her eyes as she shifts her wrists away from the lock, giving Sera more room to work around. It only takes a few seconds more before the shackles _click_ open, Sera catching the heavy metal before it hits the ground.

Ashara pulls her sleeves up to look at the damage— even if she already knows it’s bad, the blood staing her sleeves proof enough. Her wrists are rubbed raw, sections of the skin raised and peeled off, blood now flowing freely as it’s no longer clotted with the cloth of her shirt.

There’s rust embedded in her flesh.

Sera leans over to look, before muttering, “Shit, we don’t have nothin' to clean that with. You better not of ‘nfection elfy-bits, that’d be a piss way to go, yeah?”  
Ashara doesn’t comment, too busy from trying to keep her mana away from the wounds, preventing it from healing in front of Sera.

While she does that, she watches as Sera darts around the wine-cellar looking for high-grade alcohol no doubt. Sera comes sliding back from across the room, “ ‘ere, found some spirits that should do the trick,” she shoves the medium sized bottle in her hand.

As Sera rips strips off her long tunic, Ashara braces her back against the wall and, with one final grimace, pours the alcohol over her arms.

She breathes in sharply, her legs slamming her back harshly against the wall with pain. The alcohol burning worse than fire, against her skin. She barely even feels it when Sera wraps cloth around both her wrists tightly. 

Blood soaks through almost immediately.   
Her arms throb, but she pushes through the pain; she’s been through worse than this.

“We gotta get out of ‘ere.”

Ashara’s head shoots up, “No, we run and they’ll think we’re guilty. Sera, they _kill_ traitors, blacklist them so that everbody else wants them dead too.”

“If we don’t, they might kill us anyway!” Sera insists, helping her up.

Ashara pulls away once her feet stop threatening to collapse beneath her, “Sera, we can’t leave they'll trac–”

The ground under their feet beings to shake, bottles that had once lined the wall —in floor to ceiling shelves— _smash_ against the floor and the wine barrels shift in their bindings against the wall.

They lock eyes, terror in Sera’s and shock in Ashara’s.

There was magic in the air and Ashara was the only one who could feel it, even as they stumble their way to the stairs looking to hold onto the railings. Torches fall off the walls and light the liquor-soaked floorboards on fire. The wine barrels unhook from their mounts and roll into the fire, turning into moving barrels of fiery death.

Ashara barely notices a thing, huddling low on the stairs with Sera up against her back, cussing, her mind is still reeling from the magic floating in the air.

_The Veil…_

A large boom echoes in her ears as they pop; she shudders as wave of magic knocks against her own, almost shoving her to the ground with the force of it.   
The air grows heavy, pushing against her lungs, making it hard to breathe; not that she would want to if she had a choice, smoke filling the cellar with thick, hot air and ash. The ground before them begins to bubble a sickly, molten green and black tar. 

Ashara gasps as she feels the Dreaming begin to float in her grasp, the threads of the Waking being punctured infront of her as strands holding together the Veil, unravel.

Both her and Sera jerk back as a rent in the air begins to form and Sera’s cursing begins with new fervor, “shit, fuck, crap, balls, shit.”

The rent is forced open as thick, wicked sharp claws latch onto the edges of it; slowly forcing it open. Black, soulless eyes gaze back at them from thr depths of the fade.

There was a _fucking _pride demon in the wine-cellar.

Sera and Ashara don’t stick around to see what happens next, they book it up the stairs, uncaring of who hears them.

_What the hell is happening?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen Used: Project Elvhen by FenxShiral, Dragon Age Wiki, etc.
> 
> I've'an–> the fade, the Dreaming
> 
> Arani–> my friend— used for acquaintances, colleagues and or, familiar friends. (Falon is used for close friends)
> 
> "Silent Plains Piquette". Its description reads: An artisanal treatment of a Tevinter slave wine. Grape pomace is soaked and pressed, then buried for a year under the wastes where the first Archdemon fell. One assumes. They keep finding the stuff.
> 
> So, the wine Ashara thinks about is the original wine, not the "Artisanal treatment" of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Elvhen Used: (credit to Project Elvhen by Fenxshiral)
> 
> Ashara -->; she who is on a great journey. From the words: asha (woman) + ara (self journey)
> 
> Faron --> like a great friend. From the words: falon (great friend, guide) + aron (alike, similar, similar to)
> 
> Eirlin (n.)-->; Snow person/child. From the words: eir (snow) + lin/ lan/len (person)
> 
> mamae / mama = mother (mamae would be formal/archaic, mama would be informal/modern)
> 
> isa'ma'lin = brother / lit 'his blood is mine’


End file.
